Demons, fangs, shadows
by Every Dog Has Its Day
Summary: A series of drabbles with different perspectives and themes.


**1.**

His steps echoed against the dark walls, dancing around him as he made his way through the dim hallway. In any other situation he might have felt a bit tense, but this was one darkness he could never despise. The Phantomhive family was a cursed one, yes; but not enough to take away the memories that floated in this house made of honey-coloured smiles and those deep blue eyes so different from his own, yet so familiar. He allowed himself a small smile as he turned another corner, his mind wandering to green gardens, but suddenly stopped.  
He heard a dark chuckle, low, taunting, smooth like the silk he was wearing. Shadows spread in the hallway, a different kind of dark, the sort of density that used to live inside his mind not such a long time ago.

He jumped when he felt a warm breath caress the nape of his neck, making his hair stand on end. He wanted to move, turn around, yell, anything, but realised his body was no longer his own. Cold, delicate fingers caressed his jaw line, making him shiver as a voice whispered in his ear,

_I wonder...if he will grow up to be just like you...._

The voice seemed to contain a million in one, rich and deep and dark and he felt himself gasp as the fingers trailed down to his neck, playing around his adam's apple, another chuckle rippling through the air. He felt another cold hand slide through his hair, pulling slightly at it, trailing down to press on his lower lip.

_Or maybe even more...delectable....._

A surge of rage broke through him, regaining control over his body and abruptly turning around, finding that the hallway was back to normal, as if the dark presence had never been there. However, he knew he could not let his guard down, as the deep laugh died away into the dark.

_I will patiently wait for the last dinner..._

**2.**

He liked the ever-changing colours. He would sit hours on end, watching them twist and contort, rippling with hatred-coated feelings, floating over his head. Some days it would grow, others become smaller, from black to greenredorangeblue white, restless and stubborn just like _he_ had been. As promised, old man crow had let him keep most of the delectable soul, the very essence of his Young Master. Only the pure feelings of hatred had been stolen, leaving just faint traces on his part, like fading smells, of the feeling that had commanded his Young Master's body for so long. He smiled softly, remembering that one blue eye glaring at him, trying to push back the child hidden deep within the carcass that he had become, not even the shadow of the boy he'd been, once. He could feel the colours reflect into his ruby red eyes as he walked around it, contemplating it, fully absorbed with the vision as the _clink clink_ of his pointy boots got lost in the dense darkness that surrounded him. It was just them, there. Just him and his Young Master.

He lifted a black-nailed hand slowly, caressing lightly the soul, _his_ soul, and felt a ripple of electricity run down his spine as the violent colours instantly changed, remaining a blue as dark and rich as that beautiful eye. He smiled, with just a ghost of his usual smirk, for it amused him that he could still calm his Young Master with just a faint touch, and kissed the blue substance, feeling the cold over his lips. Nothing like the warm tenderness of that moment. There would be no more warmth coming from his Young Master; at least, not anymore. He could only relish in the memory of that moment, of the taking, as he'd sucked the life out of his Young Master through those tender lips. Old man crow had smirked, because he hadn't expected for his subordinate to ever feel as close to someone as he had with the little Count Phantomhive, but had nevertheless remained silent.

The demon sat down, watching the colours shift once more, and licked his lips in anticipation. He couldn't wait to finally eat this soul of his, but, for the moment, he would contemplate it. At least for a little while.

It really was the best soul he would ever have.

**3.**

It is raining.

All around him chaos falls, silent and repressed, shards and fragments of things he cannot comprehend. He can only watch the drops fall and wonder what they would feel like, crashing against his skin, cold, every little drop a reminder of what he is, and what he isn't, never was.

The sky is grey. Just grey. There is no violence in those clouds, only endless fields of unmoving (_dead_) grass, like the dirt under his feet, clad in painfully familiar shoes.  
''It has been a long time...'' , he whispers, voice lost between the falling curtain of things that, for a demon, have no name.

He wonders if he can still call himself that.

He kneels into the wet ground, black-nailed fingers tracing the curve of engraved words. Those four painful letters that haunt his mind. He smiles bitterly, looking at the tombstone, feeling the empty earth beneath him, above him. There had been, after all, no body to bury. The Undertaker had been displeased, but a bargain was a bargain and he'd promised to take everything, everything. Only memories remained, whispering things in his mind, crueler than he himself could ever be.

And there the demon remained, for some time, surrounded by rain and whispers and longing.

**4.  
**

Fear.

He hadn't felt like this in a very, very long time. On the surface, he would never admit to having felt such a thing; an Earl as himself, the Queen's dog, should not feel fear. Fear was for the weak, the petty, those below him. Fear was a stupid feeling that should be unknown to him.

But, having believed her dead, a cold doll, devoid of life...

It wasn't like he loved her, as would be assumed, because she was, after all, his fiancée. No. It was something deeper, something darker, hidden in the back of his mind. Something of his previous life, that dream of his. He had been reborn the day the seal had been burnt into his eye; before that, nothing really mattered. The warmth that had dominated those days, the smiles; strong, protective hands over his forehead, silly children's games in the living room...he couldn't, wouldn't remember such things. He refused to acknowledge such feelings of longing. He would not be weakened by the pain of lost warmth; he could only be dominated by hate, moved forward by the thirst for revenge. The rest was irrelevant.

But he knew, deep down, that he still clung to those memories. Elizabeth was a sort of link to them and, as much as he tried, he couldn't let her go. Because that would mean losing everything.

Again.

**5.**

''How many women have you slept with while being under my command?''

The question came suddenly, demanding, making Sebastian _almost_ spill a drop of tea on to the table. It was very difficult to surprise one such as him, but his Young Master was proving to be very adept at it.  
''Only those that had valuable information that you had ordered me to provide, Young Master,'' said the demon, bowing slightly to show submission. However, nineteen-year old Ciel knew better than to believe his butler felt inferior to him.

''What if I told you to sleep with me?''

There it was again. Sebastian's eyes widened slightly and stared at his master, finding no trace of amusement in his ever-blue eye.  
''If it is an order from my Lord, I will gladly carry it out''  
''Gladly because it is an order, or gladly because you really want to _fuck_ me?''

The devil smiled up at his not-so-young Master and smirked with a hint of pointy canines, ruby red eyes glowing as a strange darkness enveloped the room, opaque hands sorrounding that pale body.

Ciel shivered.

**6.**

He hated mirrors.

They all seemed to laugh at him from every corner of the mansion, like whispering ghosts, forever haunting him. Afetr some time he'd ordered Sebastian to take them all down, leaving only one in Maylene's room and another in Sebastian's, for work purposes, but that was it. He'd heard his servants talking about it, whispering in corners of the large house, wondering if their master had gone crazy. But no. Ciel had grown a lot older, yes, but not crazy.

He just despised mirrors.

However, it really was inevitable to see himself. He couldn't help glancing at his teasing reflection in the well-polished spoons, the plates, in every single window, every shard of glass. And, every time it happened, he felt a surge of nausea, a terrible feeling of self-hatred and anguish and everything that had entered his mind the day of the fire and had decided to stay there for the rest of his life. The day his own personal hell had been set loose, his own personal demons (even the one walking by his side).

Because, every time he saw his reflection, he could only see his Father, a more serious version that had forever lost the warm smile that had defined the man. And it killed him, to be reminded every day of what exactly he had lost.


End file.
